Meebs
by randommuffintpk
Summary: Over two weeks after their relationship has become official (or whatever you want to call it), John and Sherlock still have not been physically intimate. Why would that be? Written by an asexual as a response to inaccurate portrayals of asexuality. Prepare to be educated as well as entertained. Rated M for sexual content and language (because, well, it takes place in England).


**Hello again, everyone. This story, which is dear to my heart, is based on my own feelings about some of the facets of asexuality and how those facets can impact a person's relationships. In telling this story, I'd like to educate you, the reader, about asexuality itself, because many people make incorrect assumptions about those who identify as such and I'd like to set the record straight. As a demiromantic asexual, my goal is to raise awareness about one of the least-understood sexual orientations in the world, and why it can be a wonderful thing. Canonically, Sherlock Holmes presents as a very asexual character in a way that can't be eliminated from possibility by such factors as time period in which his stories take place or narrative bias on the part of John Watson or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. If you'd like to learn about asexuality while being entertained, then I'd read this story. If you don't care two figs about asexuality but are a Johnlock fan, I'd still definitely read this.**

**Ready? Off we go.**

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Meebs: Chapter 1

"You sure?"

"Of course I'm sure, John. When am I ever unsure?"

The secret had come out fifteen days, three hours, thirty-seven minutes, and fourteen seconds before John had asked Sherlock a Sensitive Question.

The secret was, in fact, not really a secret — at least, not to John, who had lived with and known Sherlock for over three and a half years. While in the beginning of their friendship John had dated a number of people, men and women alike, this behaviour had virtually vanished over the next year as he felt himself being drawn more and more to his aethereal flatmate. And the more he observed the consulting detective, the more aware he became of certain behavioural consistencies.

For example: Sherlock never dated. Not anyone, not ever. If they were in a pub — either shadowing a suspect or in an attempt by John to get Sherlock out of the bloody house for the first time in a week — and someone attempted to come on to the tall younger man, he would firmly rebuff their advances with hardly a glance. Even if the person approaching him did not seem to be harbouring any sort of lascivious intent, Sherlock still sent them packing.

It puzzled John. He had always figured that someone possessing such allure and elegance would naturally be a creature of strong sexual prowess. Considering the pride that the younger Holmes took in his appearance and his uncanny ability to turn on the charm like a suave, upper-crust politician, his looks and his attitude didn't seem to match up.

For another thing: Sherlock, as far as John could tell, had never, erm, _relieved_ himself in the entire time that they had been living together. The man never dated, so, John reasoned, he must need to have the occasional wank, just to, you know, "clean out the pipes" or whatever you want to call it. But he was ninety-nine-point-seven percent sure that the consulting android had never dabbled in the Sexy Party of One activities — though if he had, he displayed no physical post-orgasmic symptoms. It was altogether just generally befuddling.

And then John and Sherlock had gone from being two halves of one whole to being two halves of another whole entirely, the whole where one half searches for another half until they are a whole in the most wholesome way possible. How this came about is a maddening, humorous, and quite sexy story, but will be told at a later date. Right now we are focusing on the results of a Sensitive Question. Which brings us back into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street on Friday, 29 November, 2013, at 10:44 p.m.

John blinked twice in rapid succession, licking his lips unconsciously as his back went ramrod straight in his squashy armchair. "Sherlock—" He had to stop to clear his throat, which suddenly felt dry as his sense of humour. "You don't have to say that. I'm fine with what we have."

Sherlock grinned. "It's wonderful for you to say that, because, in theory, what we have should be enough." He gestured vaguely in the air between their chairs, but underlying his usual baritone rumble was a glint of_ something_ that John did not recognise at the time. Later he would realise that, for the first time in his life, Sherlock sounded _nervous_. How odd.

"Sherlock, listen to me. You don't have to do this just to make me happy. I'll get along fine without it." John, while acknowledging that the sort of attraction he felt to the gorgeous man sitting across from him was perfectly natural, still felt a bit guilty over the fact that he wanted something that Sherlock did not naturally want to give. And that most romantic relationships did not thrive without it.

The world today was, to be frank, completely sex-obsessed. Sex and innuendo were utilised in nearly everything nowadays, from entertainment – film, music, television, video games – to advertisements for just about anything. No wonder Sherlock used the words "boring" and "tedious" when describing ordinary life. He just wasn't interested in any of it at all.

'_I am a brain, John. The rest of me is a mere appendix.'_ Sherlock had said this within a few months of their living together; John had accepted the statement with little thought – Sherlock Holmes seemed to be nothing but a bundle of grey matter – but fifteen days, three hours, thirty-seven minutes, and fourteen seconds ago that remark had become even more significant. He could still recall the feeling he'd gotten when Sherlock had blurted out the not-so-secret secret: he was shocked and absolutely terrified that some series of lines had been irrevocably crossed...

John shook his head a little and squared his shoulders in an attempt to banish the sudden onslaught of negative emotion that was on the verge of overwhelming him. He looked up – Sherlock seemed to be waiting for him to say something more, and had been worrying his lower lip between his teeth while John was lost in thought.

John reached across the space between their two chairs in front of the fireplace to grasp Sherlock's hand, thumb automatically stroking the snowy skin that stretched across thin phalanges. "Sherlock," he insisted, staring into quicksilver eyes, "don't ever feel the need to do anything you don't want to do." There. That was that; it needed to be said. Having relayed the most important thing that John may have stated so far regarding their new relationship, he smiled warmly at his flatmate-turned-more, eyes crinkling at the corners. "C'mon, let's go to bed – I'm knackered." Not true – he was sort of raring to go, since Sherlock had suggested that they try _it _for the first time. But then his brain had kicked in, and he'd taken Sherlock's feelings into account, and things had gotten all emotional... He was mentally exhausted but physically wide awake. Perhaps he should make some tea. Yes, that sounded nice.

Just as he was about to get up and pad into the kitchen for a cup of chamomile, John got a lapful of consulting detective. A rather determined lapful that was wrapping his limbs round John like a bony octopus. John started, then looked up at his boyfriend in incredulity. "Sherlock, wha-_mmrph_." And now John had both a lapful as well as a mouthful. Sherlock was neither an experienced nor instinctive kisser – they'd only kissed a handful of times since the _John and Sherlock Are an Item_ ship had set sail, and Sherlock had literally only kissed one other person before John. He'd never French kissed. He'd _certainly_ never been the recipient or giver of a thorough snog. John was essentially dealing with a virgin in more than one sense – Sherlock had done nearly nothing sexual in his thirty-three years of existence.

So there was no way that he should be capable of kissing John so thoroughly as to make the doctor short of breath in four seconds flat.

It was almost as if, shortly before this evening's stilted conversation, Sherlock had gotten onto his (read: John's) laptop and assiduously researched The Art of Osculation. Currently he was attacking John's mouth with precise, analytical manoeuvres, like he had memorised some sort of procedural article. He imagined he could read Sherlock's thoughts: _"Pressure, here. Light suction, here. Nip there, then immediately smooth tongue over bitten area to soothe possible resulting pain. Attempt, not too forcefully, to gain entrance to partner's [John's] mouth."_ John's mouth opened on a strangled gasp as Sherlock's tongue gained entrance _"not too forcefully" _and a pale thin hand came up to cradle John's head at the base of his skull.

John was surprised that his bones hadn't melted. He tried to speak with Sherlock, reason with him. "Wai—_ah_…. Wait,Sherlock, stop," he said into the other man's mouth. Sherlock merely growled lowly in defiance and continued his oral assault, the hand that wasn't holding John's head in place coming down to drag at John's t shirt. John jumped when a perfectly manicured fingernail scraped one of his nipples and his hips reflexively bucked upwards. Shit. "_Sherlock,_" he whispered, a desperate tone seeping into his voice as his hands scrabbled for purchase on the younger man's shoulders. "Stop, please. I don't want to—"

"You won't," Sherlock replied breathlessly, continuing to kiss John, his lips moving from the doctor's own down to his strong neck. His mouth latched onto John's heated skin just underneath his jaw, right on the pulse point, and then he slowly _bit down_ and John nearly died, he would've sworn to you right then that his heart almost gave out, except that his mind was too distracted to swear on anything, to say anything other than "Holy bleeding buggering _fuck_." And he did so. Out loud.

Sherlock's gravelly chuckle, interspaced between small moans of his own, seemed to echo throughout the sitting room as the detective catalogued John's responses to various stimuli. A trailing of fingers across the skin just below John's navel resulted in loud, shaky inhalations of breath from his intended recipient. Tugging at John's earlobe with his teeth was even better, if the small squeak emitted from John's lips was any indication. And the subtle gyration of his own narrow hips against the sturdy doctor's own, well, _Christ_, John's reaction to that was the best of all. Sherlock didn't even have a full erection, but John most certainly did, and that pleased Sherlock to no end. John wanted him – it didn't matter that so many people had wanted him before; no, what mattered _right now_ was that John Hamish Watson, army doctor and blogger extraordinaire, _wanted_ him, despite all of Sherlock's irksome idiosyncrasies and faults. The desire present in the man below him was an incredibly heady feeling, almost euphoric, and Sherlock felt like he was getting a little bit high. He was beginning to tremble.

Of course, Sherlock's advances did not go unreciprocated. John's left hand was glued in that unruly mess of black curls, his right hand meandering down to grasp a handful of firm arse. Sherlock jumped at this, but continued in his ministrations, letting out a shaky little groan and tossing his head back as John used the pressure of his hand on Sherlock's arse to grind their cocks together. "John," he sighed softly, his spine locking momentarily as his nerves were overloaded in a way that he had not experienced in nearly twenty years.

John couldn't help but smile as he heard Sherlock say his name almost reverently. He felt Sherlock grow to full hardness through his costly trousers, and all of a sudden some sort of primal instinct tore through him, a need to take the beautiful man above him and claim him as his own and _only_ his own battered its way to the front of his thought processes. He was going to fuck Sherlock so hard that he wouldn't be able to see straight.

And then it hit him that _Sherlock Holmes _had just gotten a full hard-on and was attempting to undo the button on his jeans.

_Huh? What? How?_ Regaining a measure of his senses at last, John gently but firmly pried Sherlock off of him, so that the younger man was slouched in John's lap. Sherlock was the picture of virginal sexual arousal, all plump lips and flushed cheeks and wide, uncertain eyes, perfectly aware of what was to come next in theory but lacking in actual experience. John had to consciously fight the almost violent need that had washed over him moments ago and focus on this, here, because what Sherlock had been doing to him for the last few minutes wildly contradicted what he'd thought to be true of his gorgeous, aloof boyfriend. Things were not adding up in his brain.

"Sherlock," he said, his face contorted in utter confusion, "what are you…how are you…what's going on? How are you _hard_?"

Sherlock's _I'm-surrounded-by-idiots_ face made an unwelcome appearance. "Well, the erection of the penis is usually correlated with male sexual arousal," he replied slowly, looking as though he was trying to explain quantum mechanics to a four-year-old. "Physical and psychological stimulation has led to vasodilation and increased blood flow to the erectile tissue of my penis, my scrotum has pulled tighter, and my testicles have pulled up against my body. Also, I think that I'm beginning to feel the effects of 'sex flush,' which would explain why warmth is spreading from my upper abdomen to my pectorals and lower stomach and hips. Furthermore –"

"Yes, I know that, I went to medical school." John resisted the urge to facepalm. "What I meant is, a couple of weeks ago –"

"Over fifteen days, ago, actually." It was sort of funny to see that Sherlock's compulsion to correct people was intact in sexual situations as well.

John raised an eyebrow. "Right. _Anyway_, what just happened doesn't make sense."

"Considering the context and chronological placement of your comment, I'm assuming that you're confused about my current physiological condition in conjunction with my statement to you shortly preceding our entrance into a romantic relationship." Apparently, Sherlock's brain was very much intact. "What was the phrasing I used again? Ah, yes – I told you that I am 'as asexual as a pond full of algae.'" He grinned in remembrance. John knew very well that he was fond of odd similes.

"Um, yes." John suddenly became sharply aware that Sherlock was still sitting in his lap and that they were both sporting raging erections. "I probably sound like an idiot, but wouldn't your being asexual mean that you don't really, erm…._do_ this sort of thing?

Sherlock stared, his plump bottom lip disappearing partially into his mouth as he bit it. "Are you under the impression that I suffer from a sexual arousal disorder? I assure you, John, I am not impotent." He subtly rubbed their crotches together once more to emphasise his point.

"But, well, I just thought, _asexual_ meant that you didn't really do any of this sort of thing." John was pretty sure that his ears were a bright red.

At this, something seemed to occur to Sherlock, who sat up straighter in John's lap and stared down at the doctor with an expression akin to wonder. "You thought that I would never have sex with you, yet you agreed to be in a relationship with me anyway?" The earth seemed to cease rotating on its axis.

"Well, yeah." John grinned softly at the look on Sherlock's face. "I'm about more than the physical things, Sherlock. And what we have –" he reached up to cup the detective's pale face in his hands – "what we have here is so much _more_ than that." He pulled the lanky man down into a hug. And if he saw a tear slip from Sherlock's right eye, if he felt Sherlock's frame shake a little as he breathed, he didn't comment on it. He just held him as Sherlock absorbed the information.

And apparently, John had spoken to the little furry creature (John liked to think it was a kitten – John loved cats) that resided within Sherlock Holmes' chest. "I adore you," he whispered.

John's laugh bubbled out. "Is that what you say in place of 'I love you'?"

The hug broke. "Don't ruin it, Watson," Sherlock retorted with a smirk. "Do not forget that I'm currently sitting on your impressive erection which I almost single-handedly induced."

"True." John grunted. "Thankfully, I have a considerable amount of self-control. Want to go to bed now?" True, it would be disappointing to not have sex to alleviate his condition, but he could dispatch his problem in the shower with quick efficiency.

Sherlock snorted. "It's as if you haven't been listening to a word I've been saying all night. Really, John, try to keep up." John made to bite out a snappy retort, but he choked on it as Sherlock positively _ground down_ on John's lap, their still-clothed cocks rubbing and making the both of them gasp. "I do not experience sexual attraction mentally," Sherlock stated, "and that is a fact of which I am positive. However…" The detective's voice dropped in both pitch and frequency. "I am more than certain that I want to have sex with you. Right now." His eyes were piercing. John couldn't help but groan lowly, drawing a satisfied leer from the man above him. "Furthermore, I want to see just how _much_ 'self-control' you really have." And with that filthy little statement, Sherlock jumped off of John's lap and began to walk away, through the kitchen, down the tiny hall, past the shared loo, and into his darkened bedroom. John stared. Blinked slowly. Exhaled noisily through his nose. Glanced up at the ceiling. And with resigned exasperation and more than a hint of begrudging excitement, he followed the mad detective.

Jesus _fuck_, Sherlock was going to kill him.

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**I feel as though this story will be easier to update than _Epicurean Duress_ because I identify with Sherlock's characterization on a much more significant level. Still, I'm nearly finished with _ED_ and will update soon.**

**And please, whenever you leave a review, please know that simply writing "MORE!" and not commenting on the content at all is very frustrating for writers. I don't get paid to do this, mind you. I'm writing because I like it, and because I love these characters. Please don't treat me like I'm some horny smut-peddler, because A) I do not get horny, and B) My stories are never PWPs. Rant over.**

**'Til next time!**

**-Michaela**


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